Author's Notes: I clearly fail at short, given that I've decided to do this as five separate chapters instead of one 15 page document (as it was in MS Word). But, this is short for me!

Disclaimer: I own nothing related to Transformers. I don't even have any fan stuff other than what I write. They're not mine. Don't sue.

Chapter 2: Ironhide

Spirals of smoke wafted into the air, the smell of drying energon permeating his sensitive olfactory sensors. Mechanical whines and moans from failing parts and weaker processors rang loudly in his audios. Ratchet picked his way through the carnage with trepidation, careful to avoid stepping on any downed mechs.

'Categorize. Prioritize. Find someone you can help,' the medic mentally encouraged himself. The phrase ran though his processor on an endless loop as he scanned and calculated the chances for survival of each Cybertronian he passed by. Stooping, Ratchet began to work on the first mech he thought could be saved quickly and efficiently, patching up wounds and stemming the flow of energon from the nearly ubiquitous leaks.

The mech lying on the ground struggled to online his optics. When he did, a shocked set of red met a hard, almost irritated set of blue. Ratchet gave a reassuring grunt, though the passive indifference on his face told a different story.

From directly behind the pair, Ratchet heard the charge and whine of a high-powered cannon being readied just inches from his head. In a low growl, Ironhide commanded, "Get the frag away from him."

Ratchet's hands stilled momentarily but resumed just as quickly. Without turning, he spoke equally as low, but without the vehemence in his comrade's voice. "No. If I stop now, he'll offline."

"Then let him! He's a 'Con, and 'Con's don't deserve the right to medics. Don't see them sparing any carnage here," Ironhide spat as he waved one hand around the smoking remains of what used to be the Cybertronian High Council's chambers. "Now back off and let me finish the job. Prime needs you back at the rally point."

"As soon as I stabilize him, I'll meet up with Optimus," Ratchet said, his tone leaving no room for argument.

Ironhide blanched briefly, the large weapons specialist unaccustomed to the open hostility the medic showed toward him. Ironhide was used to having his orders obeyed, and obeyed instantly, without question. Putting one large hand on Ratchet's shoulder, Ironhide dropped his voice and octave and commanded, "Move. Now."

The medic's attention, though it was being drawn in different directions, never once waned from the medical tasks he was performing. He knew he was fighting a losing battle - the young Decepticon on the ground before him had more leaks in him than Ratchet cared to count, and for every one Ratchet fixed, two more would crop up to take its place. The mech's optics flickered once, brightened, and then went dark, his spark soon following.

From above his left shoulder, Ratchet heard Ironhide's vents exhale a satisfied grunt. "Serves him right. Fragging piece of trash 'Con."

When he felt Ironhide's cannon nudge him none-too-gently in the shoulder, it snapped the last of his fraying nerves. Ratchet sprang to his feet and practically tackled Ironhide to the pavement. Normally, the weapons specialist could dispatch a mech like Ratchet without any weapons, standing on one foot and with one arm tied behind his back, but the medic had truly grabbed the element of surprise.

"Let's get one thing straight: I am a medic, you overgrown piece of projectile firing tin! It doesn't matter what side they're on once the battle is done. If you think that I'm going to sit back and do nothing when I can help, you are no better than them," Ratchet said as he motioned violently in the direction of the offlined Decepticons. His optics blazed nearly white as he stared down at Ironhide, the medic willing his newly installed buzzsaws to stay at idle.

Ironhide shouted, "Look around you! Look what they did! The 'Cons have destroyed this planet, and they're taking our race with it!"

Equally as vehemently, Ratchet responded, "Did you ever think that maybe that young mech didn't want to fight, that he wasn't ready or willing to die for Megatron? What if this wasn't his choice?"

The prospect of forced servitude stilled the angry retort Ironhide had forming on the tips of his lip plates, the snarky reply fizzling out in his vocalizer. Relaxing his facial plates, he said softly, "I-No. I never did consider that."

"Next time you should. Not all of us were sparked for war," Ratchet added cryptically.

Ironhide held up his hands in gentle surrender. "All right. I hear it. I don't like it, but I'll respect your choice. There's no need to go trying to hack me into little, tiny pieces."

Ratchet said nothing, but nodded in understanding and accepted the unspoken apology. After a beat, the medic backed off and offered a hand to his brother in arms.

"Nice to see those hand to hand courses are finally paying off, Ratchet," Ironhide said with a smirk as he pulled himself to his feet and dusted off his paint.

Ratchet swore under his breath and stomped toward Prime and the rally point. "Frag you, Ironhide."